Part 17 (2/2)

”I'll give a few toots on the horn,” he declared. ”Perhaps the people in the house will come out and bear a hand. Hullo! There's a punt over there in the rushes. With a.s.sistance I could get my bike across in that.”

The raucous blasts on the horn disturbed the quietude of the sylvan scene, but without the desired result. He tried again, still without success.

”Perhaps these people have also cleared out in a hurry and left a fire burning,” he soliloquized. ”Otherwise they must have heard the explosions of the engine as I rode up. Well, here goes!”

Crossing the stream he took his way to the spot where the punt was made fast. Here, again, his hopes were dashed to the ground, for not only was the flat-bottomed craft chained and padlocked to a ma.s.sive post, but it had a gaping hole at one end and was half-full of water.

”It's only waste of time tramping across to that cottage,” he said to himself. ”I'll have a shot at getting the bike across first, and make enquiries later.”

With that he retraced his steps to where his cycle was standing on the wrong side of the tantalizing stream. Throwing out the clutch and standing astride the saddle, Kenneth walked his motor-cycle towards the plank bridge; then shuffling very cautiously, he began the hazardous crossing.

At every step the soles of his boots were almost at the very edge of the worn plank. As he approached the centre it creaked ominously, while, to add to his difficulties, the motion of the water as it flowed underneath tended to make him giddy. He dared not look up unless he stopped, and that he was loath to do. One false step would send himself and his motor-cycle into six or seven feet of mud and water.

At length, safe and sound, Kenneth found himself on the farther bank.

Here a road, very little better than the one he had recently traversed, led away from the house, the only visible approach to which was by means of a stone stile and a footpath.

Again leaving his cycle, the lad leapt over the low wall and hastened towards the building.

The door was wide open. Across the threshold lay the body of an old man, with a ghastly wound in his head. Kenneth recoiled in horror; then, thinking perhaps that the unfortunate farmer--for such he was--might still be living, he again approached.

Even in the attempt to move the man, he heard the sound of a heavy snore, while, as if in answer to the noise, a horse began to neigh.

”Germans!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kenneth. Once more he began to back, when, recollecting that even the sound of his motor had not disturbed the brutal slumberer, he drew his revolver and stepped across the threshold.

Coming in from the brilliant suns.h.i.+ne the place seemed almost pitch-dark, but in a few seconds the dispatch-rider's eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He found himself in what was at one time the living-room of the farm. There was no hall or pa.s.sage; the outer door opened straight into it.

The whole place was in a state of almost indescribable confusion. The table had been overthrown, the chairs smashed--and smashed deliberately, for no ordinary struggle would have resulted in such complete demolition of the furniture. On the walls were a few cheap, highly-coloured prints, slashed by a keen instrument, while the gla.s.s was shattered to fragments. On the floor were the remains of broken bottles and crockery. The cupboards had been ransacked, and their contents hurled all over the room. Even the hearthstone had been forced up; the despoilers had evidently thought that the thrifty farmer had hidden a store of money beneath it.

The rest of the rooms on the ground floor were in a similar state of confusion. Kenneth set his jaw tightly. He no longer had any inclination to beat a retreat. The sight of the foully-murdered Belgian and his devastated home filled him with rage.

Holding his revolver ready for instant action, the lad began to ascend the stairs. They creaked horribly under his weight, but still the sounds of drunken slumber continued.

At the head of the stairs four rooms opened on to a fairly s.p.a.cious landing. Three of these were unoccupied by any living creature. In one was a huddled-up form.

”Brutes!” muttered the British lad. ”No quarter!”

He pushed open the door of the remaining bedroom, whence the porcine grunts proceeded. Here were four men in the uniform of the dreaded Uhlans. Three, fully dressed and wearing their heavy boots, were sprawling in drunken slumber on the bed. They were nursing partly-consumed wine bottles, while the bed-clothes and floor were stained with the spilt liquid.

The fourth Uhlan was sitting in a chair, with his head resting on his chest. Across his forehead and over both ears was a blood-stained bandage. The wound had but recently been inflicted, so the Belgian farmer had apparently made a brave but unavailing stand in defence of his home. On the floor by the Uhlan's side lay his sword; his carbine was propped up against the arm of the chair.

”The brutes!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Kenneth again. ”Hang it, I can't shoot these fellows while they are asleep!”

Just at that moment the wounded Uhlan opened his eyes and raised his head. His brain had not been dulled by drink, for with a swift movement he seized his carbine, at the same time shouting to his comrades that the Belgians were upon them.

CHAPTER XIV

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